Getting the Divorce
by ClassyGirlsWearPearls
Summary: Greg discovers his wife is cheating. Yet another prequel to "Meeting the Family."


**A/N: Another prequel to "Meeting the Family"**

**So it's Thanksgiving Break and my connecting flight got cancelled because of this monsoon we're having and I had to take a train overnight to get home and there was no WiFi and I had no more reading to do for my thesis so I couldn't write anymore of that and this happened.**

If there was one thing Greg loved, it was when Michelle masturbated.

He loved the way she looked stretched out on their sheets, her fingers thrusting deep inside of her, her thumb frantically rubbing her clit, her other hand pulling her hair when she found she couldn't grip the sheets to ground herself.

This was a perfect opportunity. The kids were spending a week with his parents like they did every summer. Six children were a lot to handle, and both of them had demanding jobs. They were exhausted and sex starved by the time school ended, and within a week of summer vacation starting, the kids were in Bordeaux so Greg and Michelle could sleep and fuck each other until they couldn't move.

The kids were dropped off at the train earlier in the day, and Greg and Michelle had parted with a quick kiss and a promise of things to come later that night. Of course, Greg was a bit delayed in getting out of the office. He had called, and much to his delight, Michelle sighed and said, "Well, hurry. If you don't I'll be forced to take care of myself with no help at all."

Needless to say, he had wrapped up the work for the day as quickly as possible. He raced home and snuck quietly into the house, secretly hoping that Michelle had already set to work on herself. A barely audible whimper told him that yes, she had.

Grinning, Greg slipped off his shoes and hung his jacket in the closet. He crept up the stairs, loosening the tie he had worn for a day in court. He wondered absentmindedly after they had gotten themselves off if Michelle would consider being tied to the headboard with it. A moan jolted him out of that daydream, and suddenly he was back in the present, sneaking down the hallway and listening to his wife get herself off.

"_Oh_," she sighed. "Yes, just like that."

Greg's cock twitched in his pants. The door was only slightly ajar, and he could see her on the bed through the crack near the doorjamb. He wanted to wait until the right moment to alert her of his presence. In the meantime, he undid his trousers and plunged his hand into his boxers, rubbing himself roughly, doing what he could to catch up with Michelle. She was silent for a few moments, save whimpers and moans, until Greg could hear the bed creaking ever so slightly and knew she was getting close. He gripped himself tighter and began wanking harder, not caring about chafing from only using saliva as lube.

"Harder, please," Michelle moaned obscenely. "Give it to me harder! I love your cock, I love you, and oh! God I am so close. _Please"_

Greg reached for the door. He was nearly there. He wanted to see her. He wanted her to see him as he came. He wanted to lick her thighs clean.

"Don't stop," Michelle moaned brokenly. "Yes – yes – yes – yes – _Paul!"_

Michelle screamed as her orgasm gripped her, arching and continuing to fuck herself with her fingers until Greg could see that she was too sensitive to go on.

His erection had gone at that point. He quickly fixed himself in his pants and crept back down the stairs, slipping his shoes and coat on, then went out to the car as silently as possible. He eased his car out of the driveway in neutral so Michelle wouldn't hear anything and drove somewhere that wasn't home. He ended up in the parking lot of a Tesco.

Shutting the engine off in the dark, shaded corner of the parking lot, he sat numbly and thought about what he had heard. He had suspected that Michelle was cheating on him for some time, but he had no definitive proof. Her calling for some other man while she was masturbating without his knowledge was something that made him believe she was cheating beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Greg didn't know exactly when the tears started falling, but they did, and once he realized it, he couldn't stop. He had been faithful to her since the day he met her, and he was still so blissfully in love with her. Giant sobs tore from his body, and he screamed until his throat ached. He tried to yell until his throat hurt more than he did, but the emotional pain was suffocating. He threw open the car door and paced around the car, practically pulling his hair out as he sobbed. He knew what was happening. He had seen enough victims and suspects have panic attacks to know what one looked like. To actually feel one was terrifying, and he suddenly felt like shit for telling all of them to just breathe because it felt like he was drowning on dry land.

Finally, after collapsing against the driver's door, it subsided, and he began to take the deep, shuddering breaths that he had craved for the last few minutes. He climbed back into the car, fired off a text to Michelle letting her know that he was about half an hour from home, and drove.

When he arrived back at the house, Greg shut the door loudly, so she would know he was home. Michelle called his name, summoning him upstairs to their room. Reluctantly, Greg trudged up and down the hallway, meaning to confront his wife about what he had heard.

When he walked in, those plans were shattered. There lay Michelle, propped up against several pillows with her fingers buried deep in her.

"Greg, _please_," she whimpered.

Rage welled up inside of him, but years of being a cop tamped it down and turned it into a less violent type of aggression. Greg tore out of his clothes and practically leapt on Michelle. He yanked her fingers from inside of her and brought them up to his nose, sniffing her, before shoving them in his mouth and sucking them. _One last hurrah_, he promised himself.

Before she could say anything, Greg had yanked Michelle's legs impossibly far apart and shoved right into her, not giving either of them time to adjust. He fucked her relentlessly, knowing that both of them would be feeling it at least the next day. Michelle screamed, begging him for more. Greg obliged, snapping his hips a fast as he could and lifting her legs to his shoulders so she was bent double and he could get deeper into her with ever thrust.

Michelle tried to form some coherent sentence, but Greg made sure every attempt she made was destroyed by a moan that he was pulling from her with every snap of his hips. Michelle's eyes fluttered closed and she was biting her lip, and she looked so gorgeous spread out for him like that that Greg couldn't stop the tears that began to fall. Michelle didn't open her eyes, probably thinking that it was just more sweat that was flying and Greg was so thankful for that. He pounded into her until she howled from the internal orgasm he had managed to give her. Quickly rubbing his hand over her clit to coax another one out of her, Michelle kept her eyes closed and squeezed as hard as she could, trapping Greg inside of her until she came again, triggering his orgasm. He threw his head back and groaned, tears still streaming down his face.

When they had come down, Greg was still crying, but instead of the sobs that were covered by moans of pleasure moments before, he returned to the great, heaving sobs he had experienced in the parking lot.

"Greg, love. What's wrong?" Michelle panted, reaching up to cup his cheek.

"You're cheating on me," he wept, trying to control himself, but failing miserably.

Michelle's hand fell and, with her husband still inside of her and his come starting to drip out of her, she closed her eyes and choked out the word, "Yes."

* * *

Being married to a lawyer had some advantages. Michelle was able to call in a favor and get their divorce papers drafted before the kids came home.

They had fucked on Friday, discussed who would get what and joint custody on Saturday, and on Tuesday there were papers sitting on Greg's desk. The clerk who had brought them to him regarded him with a pitying look. Greg accepted the folder, and then shut his door and his blinds, letting his team know that he was taking care of something that they shouldn't disturb. It was then that Greg sat down at his desk and stared at the papers until his vision blurred and tears dripped down his face and onto the papers. His breath hitched over and over, and in an effort to not wail loudly he gripped his body and shook violently.

Probably twenty minutes after barricading himself in his office, Greg heard the sound of Sally Donovan saying, "He doesn't want to be disturbed." A second later, his door flew open and Sherlock Holmes and John Watson walked in. Sherlock flung himself down on Greg's couch, oblivious to the Inspector's pain. Thankfully, John realized something was wrong and quickly shut the door and locked it before anyone outside could notice him.

"Greg, what's wrong?" John asked. He walked around the desk and reached a tentative hand out to rest on Greg's shaking shoulder. Unable to speak, Greg nodded to the papers on the desk, unable to unwrap his arms from around his midsection as if he were afraid that he would shatter into little pieces if he did. John leaned down and scanned the papers, and then said, "Oh God. Greg, I am so sorry."

Greg choked and buried his face in his hands, shuddering more violently and crying a bit more audibly. John hesitated a second, and then began rubbing his hand in gentle circles on Greg's back.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I am sorry about your divorce, Lestrade. I assume that this would be the wrong time to ask for a case. I can leave."

Greg shook his head. "No, no, Sherlock." He ran his hands over his face and shook his head, his breath still shuddering. He pulled a file from the corner of his desk and thrust it at Sherlock. "I can't do this right now. I need your help. I can't give you crime scene access to this, but you may be able to solve it from the photos in here. Please, I can't handle this."

Sherlock glanced in the file, then plopped himself down on the couch again as he flicked through it. John leaned up against Lestrade's desk and asked, "Want to talk?"

"Not much to talk about," Greg shrugged, his eyes watering more. "She's been cheating on me for years, but I walked in on her getting herself off and screaming for another guy a few nights ago and I couldn't deny it anymore."

"How did your kids react?" John asked.

"They're at my parent's in France for another week or so. We aren't going to tell them anything until they get back. At least this gives me time to find a place and wrap my brain around this."

"How's that going for you?" John sighed, shaking his head.

"Like shit, clearly," Greg gulped. "I can't fucking think."

John stood and walked over to the coatrack where Greg's blazer was hanging. "Well then, clean your face up and get out the door. We're getting pissed."

Greg shuddered. "But it's-" he checked his watch, "-2:30. On a Tuesday."

"Like I give a fuck," John sighed, tossing the blazer at him and handing him the box of Kleenex that was on the table next to the sofa where Sherlock was sprawled.

"John, I really can't," Greg pleaded.

"One of my friend's is ending his marriage in one of the worst ways possible," John said, authority rolling off of him. "You'll do what I say because right now you just need to forget everything. You're having a family emergency. Now send an email to the DCI, make yourself look presentable so you can walk out of this building and not arouse suspicion, and once we get to the pub you can talk or cry more or just pound back pints in silence."

Swallowing, Greg scrubbed at his eyes and took several deep breaths to try to prevent himself from hyperventilating. He sent a quick email to his superior and his team saying that he'd be taking the rest of the day (and the next one after John added, "I plan to get you so drunk you don't remember tonight."), then made a beeline for the door.

Sherlock, John, and Greg slid into the cab, John giving the address of a pub that was neither of their locals so they weren't recognized, then their home address so Sherlock wouldn't be subjugated to thee emotional disaster that was about to hit.

* * *

It took less than four hours for John to bundle Greg into a cab and bring him back to their flat. He'd texted Sherlock asking for him to make sure that there were towels and fresh water in the bathroom and asked to go to the store to get some bread, but he wasn't expecting anything to happen. He was surprised when he dragged the crying DI out of the cab and into their flat to see that Sherlock wasn't there and that he had set up what John wanted in the bathroom.

"Alright, Greg, let's get you over the toilet," John groaned, heaving Greg into the bathroom and setting him over the toilet.

"I don't know what I did wrong," he sobbed drunkenly, rolling around so much that John had to sit behind him and prop him up in between his legs. His head lolled back onto John's shoulder and his tears ended up spilling onto John's shoulder and his cheek. "I just want my wife back, John. What did I do to lose my wife like this?"

"Wish I had a good answer for you, mate," John sighed, rubbing his hand up and down Greg's back. He felt him shudder and burp and tipped him over the toilet, rubbing his hair as he vomited. "You're alright, mate, just try to calm down. You're going to choke if you breath like that."

"I want to choke," Greg sobbed as soon as he'd stopped. "It would be better than this. Forty-seven and a divorcee. I'm pathetic. I should just give it all up."

John stiffened. "What about your kids?"

"Oh God, my kids. What am I going to tell them?" Greg cried. "Jesus, what am I going to tell them? How can I tell them that their Mum was unfaithful? How can I do that to them? I should just stop this. I just want everything to stop, John. Make it fucking stop."

"Greg," John said sternly. "Listen to me. You did not do this to them. Michelle did this. You have done nothing wrong here. It was Michelle. Not you."

"I just want my wife," Greg continued to wail. "If I could just talk to her and tell her how much this is killing me, how much I want to die right now, maybe she'll take me back. I love her so much, John. How could she do this to me?"

"I don't know," John whispered, steadying Greg again as he pitched forward and began to throw up. When he was done, Greg tilted his head forward and rested it on the seat of the toilet. He didn't say anything; instead he just let out huge, body-wracking sobs that tore at John's heart.

Sherlock walked in at that point, and he blanched at what he saw. John waved him in, and reached for the bread with the freer one of his hands. "Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, clearly uncomfortable and unsure of what to do about this situation.

"Should I… offer some sort of comfort?" Sherlock asked.

"If you'd like," John shrugged. "I don't think he'll remember it in the morning, but he would appreciate the gesture now."

Sherlock nodded again, then tentatively stepped forward. He awkwardly patted Greg's heaving shoulder and said, "In such situations, I feel it is customary to offer someone some physical contact to show your regard for the distressed party. Could I offer you some bread?"

Greg looked up with bloodshot eyes, then turned back and heaved into the toilet again. Sherlock continued to pat his shoulder and looked incredibly uncomfortable.

"If you need to leave, you can," John whispered.

"No, stay, please," Greg moaned, reaching for Sherlock's hand. Sherlock gripped it awkwardly, and John repositioned their hands so it would be less uncomfortable for Sherlock. Greg clearly didn't care. He threw up again, and he squeezed it hard as John aimed his increasingly lethargic head into the toilet. Greg vomited twice more, then when ten minutes had passed and he hadn't vomited anymore, John made the decision to take him to bed.

"You'll have to carry him, Sherlock," he said. "I want to lay some towels down just in case he gets sick on the sheets. Could you give him the last of his water to rinse and spit, then you can give him some more to drink and a little more bread if he can manage it."

"Of course, John," Sherlock responded in a strangely obedient way. He took John's place behind Greg and took over the role of primary caregiver for the time being.

John dashed up to his room and set down some towels on his bed. He also emptied the wastebasket (he shook his head as he looked in and saw a large supply of Kleenex) and relined it in case Greg felt the need to vomit again. Then, he pulled out the small air mattress that he kept at the back of his closet and got it ready to sleep on so he could be there in case something happened during his sleep.

As he was wrapping up, Sherlock made his way up the stairs, carrying a still crying Greg in a sideways bridal carry so he wouldn't knock into the railing or the wall.

"Just set him on the bed, please. Make sure that he's propped up on the pillows in case he needs to do it again." He watched as Sherlock set Greg down on John's bed and set him somewhat upright so he wouldn't choke. John snuck the wastebasket into the crook of his arm.

"John," Greg sighed weakly.

"What is it?" John responded, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"You and Sherlock are good mates. Thanks for taking care of me," Greg slurred.

"Anytime, mate," John smiled, pushing his hair away from his forehead.

"I don't know how to do this, John," Greg whimpered. "I don't know how to be alone and I don't know how to do this to my kids and I'm so fucking scared." Before John could respond, Greg's eyes closed and he was snoring lightly in a few seconds.

John sighed, not leaving his perch on the edge of the bed.

"He will be okay, won't he?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know," John responded honestly. "He said some things while you were out that worried me. Like he's thinking of doing something stupid. I think we should offer to let him stay here for a little while. That way he has longer to find a better place and we can keep an eye on him. Make sure he isn't working himself into the ground."

"John, he's an adult. He doesn't need us to constantly supervise him," Sherlock scoffed.

"Sherlock, I'm talking about him hurting himself," John stated bluntly.

Sherlock started, then nodded, agreeing to John's idea.

"Thank you," John sighed. "I'll look after him. You're welcome to go back to whatever you were going to do before we got back."

Somewhat shyly, Sherlock scuffed his feet on the floor and said, "If you don't mind, I'd like to stay and make sure he's alright. He took care of me during some situations that were similar to this, and I'd like to try to begin to repay the favor. I can work on his case from here, anyways."

John froze. He hadn't thought about the role that Greg had played in Sherlock's life during the years he was taking drugs. It made him hurt to think about it. He nodded so he didn't have to say anything.

Sherlock sat down on the other side of the bed and assumed his thinking pose while still looking at Greg. John propped himself against the wall on the air mattress and began to write up a blog post, all the while managing to keep an eye on Greg and Sherlock.

* * *

Greg woke up around 2 the next afternoon. His whole body felt heavy and his mouth tasted as if something had died in it. Involuntarily, he dry-heaved.

"Oh God, here you go mate, here's the basket," a familiar voice soothed, rubbing the back of his neck. His head was maneuvered so he was face down, over something that he couldn't quite make out in the darkness of the room.

Soon enough, he stopped dry-heaving and lay down heavily on the… bed? Yes, bed, that he was lying on. Whose bed, he had no idea, at least until someone said, "Sherlock, run downstairs and get me some more water for him, will you?" This was John's bed then.

"How do you feel?" John asked.

"Like a twat," Greg groaned. "God I feel like shit. How late were we out?"

"Late enough," John replied cryptically. Greg didn't feel well enough to respond. Soft footsteps made their way close to him, and a straw was put at his mouth. "Sip," John commanded.

After he'd demolished several cups of water, Greg lay on his back and took a deep breath. "I'm a mess."

"Aren't we all," John chuckled. "Don't you worry about it."

"I need to start looking for somewhere to go," Greg groaned. "Know anyone looking for a flatmate?"

"We were actually talking about that and we want you to stay here for a little while," John said softly. "That'll give you some time to find a place that you really like and you won't just take whatever comes along first."

Greg was silent. He began breathing deeply, as if he were fighting something off.

"Alright, mate?" John asked tentatively.

"I couldn't impose like that," Greg said thickly.

"It wouldn't be an imposition at all," John replied quickly.

"Well, it would, but we've worked out a system to make it work," Sherlock supplied.

"Sherlock," John hissed.

"We want you to stay with us, Lestrade. You may stay as long as you need," Sherlock added quickly.

"We wouldn't be offering if this wasn't something we could easily work with," John tacked on. "Please, stay for at least a few weeks so you can get yourself properly situated. I would feel much better if you did. Even if you feel the need to be around other people for longer than it will take you to find a place, we don't mind."

Greg covered his eyes with his hand and choked back a sob. John reached for the other hand and squeezed it. After a few moments of him composing himself, Greg nodded and said, "Thank you. That would mean so much to me."

John patted him on the knee softly. "We're glad to help. Now, do you need anything else or would you like to go back to sleep?"

"Sleep," Greg groaned. "God, I feel like there's someone using a jackhammer to crack open my skull."

John chuckled softly. "We'll leave you to it, then. Call if you need something." He turned and walked down the stairs.

It took Greg a moment to realize that Sherlock was still in the room. "Keeping tabs on me?" Greg joked.

Sherlock moved to the bed and sat on the edge. "I'll be sitting here until you go back to sleep. I feel it's time that I take that role in this… relationship we have."

Greg wanted to argue, but nothing would come out of his mouth. He remembered the early days of their acquaintance, when Sherlock was frequently strung out and Greg would follow him back to his crummy little flat on Montague Street to make sure that he sobered up and got some food in him. He nodded, then curled up with the wastebasket again (God, he missed Michelle so much that he was cuddling with a wastebasket) and fell asleep.


End file.
